Possessions 2: Strange Gifts
by ThePet
Summary: When Van Helsing returns from a three-month mission to find Carl gone, he is sure the dark priest's parting gift has something to do with it. But has Carl left because he is afraid of harming others - or because he desires to harm them?
1. Chapter One

A/N I finally got around to starting the sequel to 'Possessions'. If you haven't read that story, I think this one makes sense by itself, but 'Possessions' does set up the events for the current work. There are four more chapters written, but since I wrote them in a converted 17th century barn in rural Ireland, they need to be typed up before I can add them! Hopefully this won't take too long, but since my life has been complicated by the start of a new MSc, I can't guarantee regular posting of new chapters.

To everyone who read and reviewed 'Possessions', many thanks – I hope you enjoy this story. Please review with comments, suggestions, etc.

Special note about slash: this is _not_ a slash story, and at no point will it become one. Readers of 'Possessions' might also have read the slash version, which was written first. In the case of 'Strange Gifts', the non-slash version, this one, is being written first, so hopefully it will flow better than 'Possessions'. There may be a slash version of this story only if I feel slash would add something to it, or change it in a way sufficiently interesting to be worth editing the original, unless readers tell me a slash version would be a good idea. So if anyone would particular like a slash version, please say so...I'm happy to write it just for fun, if anyone would enjoy reading it!

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Gabriel van Helsing rode through the night on a stallion that melded with the darkness, his long dark coat flying out behind him as he galloped, his wide-brimmed hat pressed firmly down on his head to prevent it being torn away by the wind.

Van Helsing was heading home after the successful completion of a long, solitary mission in the East; he had been gone for almost three months. For three months, he had not slept in a proper bed, or eaten proper food; for three months h had gone without luxuries like soap and clean clothes. More importantly, however, for three months he had not seen Carl.

Van Helsing had left the friar in his laboratory, looking pale, vulnerable and harried, but assuring the hunter that he would be all right. With the threat of a hideous monster attacking hundreds of innocent people in a far-off Indian village, Van Helsing had had no choice but to believe his friend, and depart.

In his heart, however, Van Helsing had not really been convinced that Carl _was_ all right. It had been barely a fortnight since Tallander, the dark priest who had so nearly destroyed both their lives, has spoken directly to Jinette and the other Cardinals, pledging his vengeance, and claiming to leave Carl with a 'gift'. Whether or not this last had been idle scare-tactics Van Helsing did not know; he only knew that Carl had been distracted and quiet since the Tallander incident, sleeping little, suffering nightmares when he did, and attempting to avoid both Van Helsing and his fellow weaponsmiths.

The hunter had not allowed himself to be avoided. Granted special dispensation to remain for as long as was feasible at the Vatican, attempting to aid Carl in his time of need, Gabriel had sought the friar out, cajoling, demanding, even getting him drunk – but Carl had refused to talk to him. The inventor had withdrawn into himself, throwing himself more and more into solitary work and prayer, missing more meals than usual; he was barely recognisable as the brisk, eccentric, zealous genius he had been before Tallander usurped his body and fractured his soul.

Van Helsing told himself that Carl would recover; that this would be a mere hiatus in the natural order of things, but in truth, he was becoming – afraid. In a chaotic life with a barely-remembered past, Carl was the one unchanging fixture, the rock Van Helsing had come to depend upon. He could count on Carl to be clever, comical, egotistical; a bemused child or a wise advisor, depending on the situation; both brilliant and bewildered, shy and confident, crazy and devilishly, dangerously sharp-witted. Was that man, that friend Van Helsing had come to rely on, truly gone? The hunter would not believe it; Carl was hurt, damaged, and broken, but he was still Carl. Gabriel knew the day would come when his friend would once more tick him off for something in that prissy schoolmaster voice he adopted, would return to his work with the zeal with which he had previously approached it, rather than the air of a man desperately trying to distract himself from some horrible fate – but when this would happen, and how Van Helsing could help to bring it about, was beyond the hunter to know.

Nonetheless, he was filled with hope as he rode, hope that three long months would have wrought some positive change in the friar. Van Helsing had asked (as a demand must be called when made of a superior) Cardinal Jinette to keep an eye on Carl, and since the old man had a certain affection for the quirky inventor, Van Helsing was reasonably sure his request would not be ignored.

He had written to Carl when the opportunity arose – between slaying the monster and heading home – telling the friar of his adventure and his imminent arrival; a light-hearted letter saying none of the things he really wanted to say. The hunter hoped he would be able to say them in person, when it came to it.

He would be home in less than a day.

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Cardinal Jinette was in his office, reading brother Marcus' report on a new type of treble-bladed longsword his team was working on, when a tap at the door distracted him.

"Enter," he called, in his rich, carrying voice, putting aside the papers. He recognised the timid knock of a lay-brother, not the authoritative thump Van Helsing gave. The cardinal was disappointed; it was the hunter he had been hoping to see.

"Forgive my intrusion, Your Eminence," lay-brother Stephen murmured respectfully, as he cringed his way into the room, "but there has been a communication from Van Helsing."

Jinette took interest at once, and the expression of slight irritation he had been wearing smoothed from his face. Often the monks, friars, and especially lay-brothers, of the Order exasperated him with their simpering deference. Jinette, like many strong, authoritative men, respected initiative, confidence, even a little insubordination. That was why the cardinal was so fond of Carl – who was overzealous rather than intentionally rude, but tended to leave the stamp of his personality on any discussion nonetheless; it was the also the reason why he like Van Helsing, though Jinette took pains to see that the hunter never knew it.

Stephen was timidly holding out a battered letter for Jinette to see.

"Why was this communication not with my morning post?" the cardinal asked sharply.

"Please, Your Eminence – because it is addressed to Friar Carl. But it is in Van Helsing's handwriting, Your Eminence."

An expression of regretful concern passed over the cardinal's face, and lay-brother Stephen mirrored it, adding a touch of sycophantic sympathy.

"Of course, we're all _very_ upset about Friar Carl," he said, wringing his hands for good measure. Jinette looked up sharply.

"None of you liked him."

"Oh – well, er...not at all, Your Eminence. Which means to say, we _did_ like him very much...such a good-natured young man...very popular..."

The cardinal snorted with something that might have been disgust or grim amusement, and turned back to the letter. It read:

"**_Carl,_**

**_You needn't have worried about that Indian monster – as soon as I'd chopped one of its heads off, the other three lost the heart to fight. The villagers were grateful, which made a nice change, though I had to refuse one of the elder's invitation to marry his daughter, fine though her attributes were._**

**_By the way, that device you built for freezing the enemy in its tracks came in very useful for keeping my beer cold. It didn't have much effect on the monster, unfortunately, since the beast was wreathed in fire, as well as breathing it._**

**_I'm afraid I didn't get the opportunity to make copious notes on the creature while it was trying to tear me limb from limb – but I did bring back one of the heads for you: the one that chewed my hat. Do with it as you will. I'm also bringing a bottle of some very potent liquor another of the elders – this one had no daughters – gave to me. Keep it hidden from Jinette._**

**_Anyway, I'll be back in about a fortnight, so keep the home fires burning, and see if you can get my crossbow fixed by then, since I expect the old man will be sending me out on another mission within five minutes of my return._**

**_Yours,_**

**_V.H_**."

Jinette sighed, and put the letter down. The jocular tone of it convinced him that Carl had not written to the hunter previously, and if he had, the letter had contained no indication of the friar's intentions. Another lead, perhaps their best one, had come to an end.

"Lay-brother Stephen," the cardinal said, "take this letter to Father James and ask him to test it for sympathetic ink. Then, give it to Brother Ambrose for decoding. Report any findings back to me immediately."

"Yes, Your Eminence." Stephen scurried off, leaving Jinette to his thoughts. The cardinal picked up the sword report, frowned, and dropped it again. He didn't really believe that Van Helsing had concealed any hidden message in the innocuous note. The fact that the hunter had written to Carl at all indicated that Van Helsing knew nothing of what had happened...and Van Helsing was the person Carl wad closest to in all the world. If he had told anyone of the action he had intended to take, if would have been Gabriel Van Helsing.

"Why have you done this, Carl?" the cardinal wondered aloud, to his empty office. "Could you not trust us? Did you think we would not help you?" But Jinette knew that Carl did not fully trust him, or the others in command of the Order – and, he had to admit, the inventor had good reason.

A/N End of chapter one...in the second chapter, Van Helsing returns to the Vatican. Please review!


	2. Chapter Two

A/N Thanks very much for your reviews! I very much appreciate them. This chapter involves more setting up of the plot and background – but don't worry, things get more interesting in chapter three. Hope you enjoy this chapter :-)

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Van Helsing reached the Vatican at midday, tired and dusty, and with a sense of foreboding he could not shake – a feeling that had followed him from India, although he had only begun to notice it when the adrenaline and euphoria resulting from his mission had faded.

Ignoring the standing rule that he should report immediately to Cardinal Jinette upon arrival at Vatican City, the hunter made his way directly to Carl's laboratory. He was not there, which surprised Van Helsing; Carl usually skipped noon prayers and the following meal in order to have peace and quiet to work for a couple of hours. He was not in the refectory either, or in his cell, and when the throng of monks came out from the chapel, Carl was not among them.

His sense of unease increasing, Van Helsing made his way to Jinette's office. Maybe the cardinal would have some idea of where Carl was. Van Helsing had noticed that the friar's cell seemed even more Spartan than usual – some books and odds-and-ends were missing – and he wondered whether Carl had been sent somewhere on a constitutional.

Rapping loudly on the door, Van Helsing waited impatiently for about five seconds before Jinette invited him inside. The cardinal put the paperwork he was looking over aside immediately upon recognising his visitor.

"Van Helsing. Welcome back." With a sweep of his be-ringed hand, the old man invited the hunter to sit. Van Helsing dropped into a chair, but sat tensely, his spine rigid and every muscle alert.

"Your report..."

"You Eminence, there's something..."

"...can wait," Jinette finished, tersely. "A matter of importance has arisen here in the Vatican – one which, I am afraid, will affect you personally."

Van Helsing's heart sank as all his presentiments of dread were realised.

"Carl," he said grimly. Jinette nodded.

"Where is he?" the hunter demanded.

"That, I fear, is the difficulty. We do not know."

"What!?" after everything that had happened, the last thing Van Helsing would have expected Carl to do was run. He had seemed so vulnerable, so needy of support and routine and familiarity.

"Tell me everything you can, Your Eminence. Please," Van Helsing added the word as an afterthought. Jinette did not appear to notice.

"There was a small accident in the laboratory thirteen days ago, in the morning. Carl was there but not injured, though he seemed distressed by the event, according to Lay-Brother Antonio, who cleared up the mess. Carl was inclined to blame himself, even though it appears that the accident could not – for once – have been his fault.

"Brother Ambrose saw him walking in the garden that evening, at about nine o'clock, appearing very distracted, pacing aimlessly and wringing his hands, talking to himself. That was the last time Carl was seen at the Vatican. His cell was empty the next morning; he was not at matins, meals, or in the laboratory at all. We have heard nothing of him since."

Van Helsing, his shoulders tense and his jaw set, pondered the problem.

"He told no one what he intended? No indication at all?"

"Nothing that we have been able to learn."

The hunter clenched his fists, frustrated and alarmed. How could Carl have been so stupid as to leave the safety of the Vatican – to leave Van Helsing, whom he should have known would help and protect him, whatever was happening?

"Tallander," the hunter growled. Jinette looked at him sharply.

"Did Carl...?"

"No. But it has to be...something to do with Tallander; something to do with the 'gift' he claimed to have given Carl. I'd stake my life on it."

Jinette raised an eyebrow.

"You may have to, my son. Carl must have left for one of two reasons: either Tallander's 'gift' was something so painful, or shaming, that Carl could not bear the society of even his closest friends; or, Carl is, or at least believes himself to be, a danger to those around him."

"No!"

"Why would he not communicate his suffering to you, his closest friend? Why would he hide, if not to spare those he loves? Carl is a brave man, Van Helsing, and he trusts you implicitly. He would consult with you, seek comfort and advice...unless he feared to be in your present because he believes sincerely that he may be a danger to you."

Van Helsing gritted his teeth. He could not argue with Jinette's analysis of the situation; it was the best theory they had. Still, his blood boiled when he thought of Carl suffering alone through some dreadful, unknown torment. Had he not suffered enough?

"What do you want me to do?" Van Helsing asked, knowing the answer.

"Find him," the cardinal replied, succinctly. "Find him, and bring him home, Gabriel. We will help him if we can."

"And if not?" it made Van Helsing's soul ache to ask the question, but he had to - for Carl's sake. "If Tallander's gift really has made him – dangerous?"

There was a silence, uncomfortable on the one side, accusing on the other.

"We always try," the cardinal said wearily, "to rehabilitate those – persons of unfortunate reputation – who are brought to us alive. Carl will be assured of the same moral treatment."

"You mean you won't kill him if you can use him."

"Or reverse whatever Tallander has done to him. My son, if Carl himself cannot bear to be near those he loves, if he has already condemned himself into madness or evil, it would be against the will of God to keep him alive with his soul in torment."

This rhetoric was sounding too familiar, sounding too much like Tallander's enemy Reicher, when he had tried to persuade Van Helsing that killing Carl – and Tallander with him – would be a merciful release to the friar.

"I won't hurt him," the hunter said, forcing his voice to sound steady. "I'll search for him – but I won't harm Carl, or allow him to come to harm."

"I would expect no less of you, as his friend," Jinette replied, evenly. An understanding passed between the two, unspoken, but it gave Van Helsing some small comfort. The hunter rose briskly to his feet.

"I'll go at once, then, Your Eminence."

"May God go with you, my son." Swiftly and sincerely the cardinal blessed him, and Van Helsing took his leave, riding out once more – this time, not to slay a monster, but to save a soul. A soul that, despite everything, he believed to be innocent.

A soul he loved.

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A/N Please review! Next chapter – Carl!


	3. Chapter Three

A/N Thank you for your reviews and support so far! I really welcome all your comments about this story - is everyone in character? Have I made any daft mistakes in terms of facts, spelling or grammar? Is the plot interesting? How does it compare to Possessions? Any guesses as to what's going to happen? Let me know how I'm doing, and I'll try to improve whatever's wrong.

Hope you enjoy this chapter! A litte longer than the last, I think.

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The old man moved slowly, painfully, from the repaired front door to the well, each movement stiff and weary. Carefully, he lowered the rusting, ancient bucket into the slightly stagnant water, hauling it up as quickly as he could before all the water leaked out through the bucket's many holes. The man washed himself, and had anyone witnessed him taking off the long black hooded cloak that draped his small, hunched body and obscured his features, they would have been startled to see that the man was not really old at all.

The face, though haggard and exhausted, was that of relative youth, or at least the good side of middle age; the expression had a suggestion of openness and innocence about it, despite the desperate look in the deep sea-coloured eyes. The hair was a soft shade of what might politely be described as a sort of strawberry blonde, untouched by grey, falling in an untidy bird's nest around the man's head. The lips were full and sensual, despite being bitten and bloody; the body, naked to the waist now, was thin and malnourished, the shoulders rounded; the man stood in an uncomfortable-looking hunch that nonetheless seemed natural to him.

Completing his ablutions, the tired man discarded the dirty water and fetched more, which he transferred to an old kettle before returning the bucket to the well. Replacing his cloak, he shuffled back inside the abandoned, half-ruined manor house which had lately become his home, and shut the door.

From the outside, the manor, set in acres of undisturbed, thickly forested countryside, appeared little more than a ruin. The roof was full of holes, and creeping plants grew both inside and outside it. The windows were broken and boarded, the stone walls crumbling, the whole building giving off an air of desolation.

Inside, however, the manor house was more pleasing. Some furniture, dirty but serviceable, remained, as did the stairs, though they were rickety. Some of the bedrooms were mostly intact, but the man had made the old drawing room his base. He slept on a sofa in the dark, dank room which he illuminated with a single dim lamp and some candles for reading purposes. Provisions were neatly stacked in a sideboard; books lay on a solid coffee table in the middle of the room.

The man had brought with him a contraption that resembled a miniature, metal votive stone, but was in fact a cleverly designed mobile stove, which he ran using lamp-oil. He lit it and placed the kettle upon its hob; it soon whistled, and he made hot tea, breakfasting on bread and cheese.

Then the knock came.

The man leapt to his feet with an exclamation of alarm, knocking over the stove. Quickly throwing his tea down to extinguish the flames, he leapt with surprising agility behind the sofa, and hid there.

The knocking became a banging, and then a voice:

"I know you're in there, Carl! Open the door!"

Carl cowered behind the sofa, saying nothing. He had thought his hiding-place safe even from the great demon hunter. He considered fleeing through the back door – but Van Helsing would catch him easily. Whatever his virtues, Carl was not fleet of foot.

"Open this thrice-damned door, Carl! I'm here to help you!"

"Go...go away!" Carl squeaked.

"I'll just have to break it down, then."

"No, don't do that! It took me over an hour to fix it and three to fit the additional security bolts. All right, all right..." he crossed to the door and threw it open, to find himself peering up into the impatient face of Gabriel van Helsing.

"Just what in God's name do you think you're doing?" the hunter demanded.

"In God's name," whispered the friar, "nothing."

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"Come in, make yourself at home, why don't you." Carl flopped back onto his sofa as Van Helsing strode into the room, took off his hat and coat, and sat on the coffee table, pushing Carl's books aside.

"How long have you been living here, Carl?"

"Since I left the thrice-hell-damned Vatican, of course," the friar responded irritably. He was always at his most acerbic when scared out of his wits – for someone else. Just how much of an imbecile _was_ Van Helsing, anyway, coming here like this, thinking that as soon as he got involved everything would be all right...arrogant, reckless, puffed-up, blithering fool of a man!

"I suppose you've been there?"

"Where? The Vatican, or hell? I've probably spent time in both."

"Yes, well, that makes two of us," muttered Carl, in no mood for Van Helsing's jokes. "Didn't you get my message?"

"What message?"

"The one I left for you! On a piece of drawing-paper, written in sympathetic ink, rolled up and concealed in the propulsion chamber of your crossbow?"

Van Helsing stared at him blankly.

"No...I didn't. But I did wonder why the thing wouldn't fire when I collected it."

Carl rolled his expressive eyes.

"What's the use of a secret message if the person it's intended for can't understand it?" Van Helsing wondered.

"I obviously credited you with more intelligence than you possess!" Carl snapped back. Van Helsing looked at him closely, intently, reading his worry, his fear; Carl felt he could not bear that pitying expression on his friend's face an instant longer.

"The note said to keep away from me, not to follow me, to leave me alone. Obey it." Carl got to his feet. "I want you to leave."

"I'm not going anywhere, Carl."

"I said get out!" the friar actually made an attempt to drag the bigger man to his feet, but Van Helsing was about as malleable as a man in the company of the Medusa – and his facial expression was remarkably similar, as well. Carl shoved him, hard, in his desperation; the hunter got suddenly to his feet and grabbed the friar roughly by the shoulders. Finally there was emotion in his face, but it was not anger, it was – hurt. Sorrow. Concern.

"Jinette was right," Van Helsing said, quietly. "You think you're a danger to those around you."

Carl stared at him, then shrugged off his hands and turned away, filled with a deep misery he was afraid that Van Helsing would understand...because he must have felt it too. Misery, fear, self-loathing – and mixed in with those, a sense of elation, of power, that brought a shame and horror even worse than all the other feelings combined. Van Helsing must have felt this – when he was bitten by the werewolf.

If Carl took his friend into his confidence, told him everything, poured out all the terrors he had thus far suffered alone, and Van Helsing understood and sympathised, as Carl knew he would, it would only make it harder to send him away. Harder to be alone, as he knew he must be, for the rest of his life.

The rest of his life! And never knowing until the end whether he would become the monster he hated and dreaded, the thing which had done this to him, stolen his peace of mind, destroyed his future. Tallander. The very memory of the name made him feel sick to his stomach.

It was this last thought, that a fate similar to the dark priest's might await him after bodily death – and if not, hell certainly would – that finally broke the friar. He turned away from Van Helsing, threw himself face down on the sofa, and sobbed.

For a few minutes Carl was lost in despair, but as the crisis slowly passed and he came to himself again, he found himself wondering why Van Helsing was not comforting him. Carl despised himself for this – after all, he _wanted_ Van Helsing to leave him be, for his own safety – but a part of him desperately wanted to tell his story and feel the hunter's comforting hand on his shoulder, hear words of sympathy and shared sorrow, before taking his leave from civilisation forever.

Carl looked up, turning his red and blotchy, tear-stained face towards where the hunter still stood. Van Helsing was staring down at him – and there was an expression of deep disgust on his face.

"I can't believe you've let yourself get into this state," Van Helsing growled, contempt in every syllable. "You're pathetic, Carl. I never imagined you'd just go to pieces like this rather than the confronting the problem head-on, like a man. The man you used to be would never have fallen apart, given in, run away like a frightened schoolchild – I liked and respected that man, but I can see there's nothing left of him. I should never have come here. I'll leave you to your – exile."

With a cold sneer, Van Helsing grabbed his coat and hat, and made for the door. Carl stared after him, astounded, hurt – and furious.

"How dare you!"

Van Helsing was at the threshold, facing away from Carl. He paused, turning his head slightly.

"How dare you speak to me that way when you have no _idea_ of what's going on! Of what I'm living with! You can't possibly imagine what it took to leave Vatican City where I've been safe for most of my life – to leave my _home_ – and not for my own benefit! I _had_ to leave, for the sake of the others; I have to cut myself off from the world and if I'm a little _upset_ about the prospect of never seeing another living soul and suffering eternal torment in the fires of hell, I think I damned well have a right!"

Carl spat all this out without taking a breath, gesturing angrily at the broad back turned towards him, shivering all over with indignation.

"So don't presume to know what sort of man I am, Gabriel van Helsing, and don't _dare_ to call me a coward!" he finished, ringingly – and as he said so, the fallen stove abruptly burst into flame, and the empty tea mug shattered into fragments. Van Helsing spun around; Carl stared at the fire, stricken.

"Get – get out," he managed to whisper, horrified. "Just leave me alone!"

Van Helsing ignored him. He emptied Carl's kettle over the flames, which died immediately, then faced the ashen friar.

"Are you all right?" he asked, simply.

"Go away," Carl mumbled.

"Don't be an idiot, Carl. I have a good notion of what's happening here; why do you think I was trying to make you angry?"

Carl looked up at him, with fear and a kind of desperation in his eyes now – but somewhere, a spark of hope.

"You don't really think that I'm a coward?"

"Of course not."

"Oh..." Carl rubbed his eyes, suddenly exhausted. "Well, that's something, I suppose."

"Tell me what's happening. All of it. I want to help you, Carl, but I can't if you won't trust me."

"It isn't you I don't trust. It's myself."

"Have a little faith in my judgement, then. I don't believe you would hurt me, Carl/ And I'm pretty good at taking care of myself, you know."

Carl bit his lip. Surely there was no harm in telling Van Helsing everything? Perhaps it would finally persuade him to leave – and it would certainly be a load of Carl's heart. He sat wringing his hands, unsure how to begin. Van Helsing regarded him for a moment, then got up.

"Why don't you marshal your thoughts while I make us some tea?"

Carl sat in silence while the hunter fetched more water and two tin mugs from his own pack, made the tea using Carl's ingenious little stove, and handed a cup to the friar.

"Take your time," the hunter said, calmly. "And I want you to know that I have absolute faith in you, Carl – in your morality and your kindness. I don't believe you're capable of harming another human being of your own volition – whatever I can do to help you through this, I will do. With official authorisation or without it."

Carl gave a wan smile. "Yes, that's always the way, isn't it? I'm sorry I doubted you earlier. I should have known you were only trying to goad me; after all, you're your favourite pastime."

The hunter smiled at that.

"That's better," he said.

Carl leaned back in his seat, gazed ruefully at the remains of the shattered mug – and began.

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A/N Next chapter -Carl's story, in his own words. My first time writing Carl first-person!


	4. Chapter Four

A/N Thank you everyone for your comments so far! I appreciate them all. Hope you enjoy this chapter.

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I started to notice something was wrong shortly after you left Carl began. I'd been trying not to think about Tallander's parting shot, as it were, but the matter preyed heavily on my mind, as you probably noticed – for future reference, by the way, my tolerance for alcohol is rather greater than it was, so trying to get my drunk on half a flask on cheap whisky was a trick doomed to failure. I had rather hoped that the increased tolerance _was_ Tallander's gift, but sadly that proved not to be the case.

The first time I really noticed anything was the day after you departed for India, I think – I'd been praying in my cell, something I don't often do, and I took my Bible to bed – the _actual_ Bible, you know, not that book of Da Vinci's, though I usually prefer the latter. Anyway, I was searching for a particular passage in Genesis when to my amazement, the pages started riffling, and turned up at exactly the right place! It caused me quite a shock, as you can imagine, but since it was very late and I was exhausted, I fell asleep still thinking about it and in the morning, I couldn't be sure whether or not it had been a dream.

The next day, I was at matins and feeling very bored – oh, don't look at me like that, Van Helsing ,you know you can't stand it either; it's so _repetitive_ – when I got a sudden and violent cramp in my left leg. I stood up suddenly to relieve it, a perfectly justified action as I'm sure you'll agree, and Abbot Bardens gave me _such_ a filthy look – it was embarrassing. I remember wishing I could throw my prayer book at his silly old head – and lo and behold, it shot right along the floor! The book, I mean, not the Abbot's head. No-one really noticed, but I knew now for certain that Something Odd was happening.

There were lots of little things like that over the next few days, and they seemed to increase in strength and frequency. At first I thought that Tallander had cursed me with a sort of demon, or poltergeist – you know, a noisy spirit – but then I came to understand that all this supernatural activity was coming from _me_. Some force within me was acting on physical objects and making them move around. I do wonder, by the way, if that's what a poltergeist _is_ – not actually a ghost but some force within a person, linked perhaps to a spirit or demon, which...all right, all right, I'll get back to the point.

The problem got slowly worse, and more alarming. It was perhaps five weeks after you left that I discovered my ability to produce and control flame. Don't look so startled, you saw the stove – and remember the fires in the church, that night you finally drove Tallander out of me? I should have expected it really; now I realised exactly what was happening, just what Tallander's 'gift or curse' really was.

How did it happen? Well, in a small way at first. I was reading in my cell when a gust of wind blew out the candle. I was groping around in the dark for my tinderbox when it came back to life as bright as ever. This happened a few times; candles and lamps seemed to light themselves when I was in the room.

You can imagine that I was terrified. I had been tainted with a power given to me by a demon; I felt unclean, and I was afraid to tell anyone about it. Right up until that incident in the lab, however, I truly didn't think my new ability was a genuine threat to anyone, and I'd begun – in all honestly – to enjoy it a little. I see now how wrong I was, how easily power corrupts. Don't even _think _about telling me it isn't so – I saw your face, back in Transylvania, when you...but never mind that.

The incident in the laboratory was my fault, though no one understood why I blamed myself, and I couldn't explain. Did the Cardinal tell you about it? I thought he might be sharp enough to associate it with my disappearance, even though there was no logical connection. I was nowhere near the Rotating Barrage Mark II when it went off, but no one could explain how it did so, when the safety was supposed to be on; and I'd been thinking how much I'd like to see it fired, and Brother John kept messing about and saying it wasn't ready yet and I was getting impatient and...and it just – went off.

It was horrible. As it happened, God be thanked, no one was hurt, but they easily could have been – I realised that this curse of mine was growing stronger and moreover, that I could not consciously control it; I'd experimented with it, of course, when I realised what it was, but everything I tried to do went wrong. Pictures fell off walls rather than righting themselves as I intended; when I tried to call a wrench across the room to me, it hit me in the head quite forcefully. It was frustrating, at first, but after the lab incident it became truly frightening. It was dangerous; _I_ was dangerous, and the only option was to leave, to cut myself off entirely from people so that I wouldn't be a threat to them.

It wasn't the solution I wanted; what I _really_ wanted was to confide everything to you, or even Cardinal Jinette, since you weren't there – don't look so guilty, you couldn't have known what would happen, and those people in India needed you. Anyway, I won't dwell on what it cost me to make my choice, all that needs to be said is that I packed up a few books and things I couldn't bear to leave, and slipped out that night, when everyone was asleep. I knew about this old manor; an acquaintance of mine, who'd taken messages to the cardinals, mentioned that it had been set on fire by some young men from the nearest village – almost fifteen years ago, this was, but I remembered it. So did you, obviously. I didn't think of that, which is a testament to how shaken and distressed I really was when I came here.

So here I am – temporarily, anyway. I meant to stay a few nights, but to be perfectly honest, with the prospect of an empty, solitary, purposeless future before me, I felt disinclined to move on. It's peaceful here; the forest keeps it hidden and quiet, there's even a small lake behind the house – and I feel safe. I was sure no one would find me here, which in retrospect was obviously quite stupid, but I wasn't thinking clearly. I was – distraught – for some time, but I think it's all out of my system now. Resigned to my fate, as it were. After all, what's the alternative? I'll move on, I suppose, now you've turned up – find some isolated nook, cut myself odd completely, live off roots and berries in a Godforsaken corner of the world – rather like our old friend, the Frankenstein creature. It never occurred to me when we parted from him that one day I'd be empathising with his situation.

I'll be all right, you know. I'm adaptable. I have that sort of mind. I'll be satisfied with my books and my own brain – perhaps I'll even be able to acquire tools to make things with. If not I'll just design them, come up with ideas and leave them all for someone for find when – when I'm gone. I wouldn't want my life to be a waste. I've made up my mind that I'll take whatever happens afterwards as it comes – there's no point worrying about it yet. Unless you end up having to kill me of course – a joke, Van Helsing! It was a _joke_. Gallows humour, you know? You used to understand that. Anyway, I may find a way to atone, and after all, thousands of people must go to Hell every day. It can't be _that_ bad. Full of lawyers, I understand, though I do wonder if Abbot Burnsley used to say that because of the taxation trouble he had during – Abbot Burnsley? He was in charge of the abbey where I grew up, in England...I thought I'd mentioned him? Save him for another day? _What_ other day, Van Helsing? I'm off into the wilderness after this conversation, don't forget.

A long pause

The only thing I'm still afraid of, _really_ afraid of, is that Tallander, not Lucifer, might be waiting for me on the other side.

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A/N Comments welcome! How was that chapter? How did you find Carl's voice? I've never written in the first person from his perspective before. By the way, I'm writing this up while watching the movie on my laptop, and Carl's just said the wet dog line ;-) Next chapter – the last one written so far – Van Helsing offers Carl a deal.


	5. Chapter Five

A/N The final chapter written so far – after this, updates may be irregular. Thank you all for your comments on this story, and indeed on 'Possessions'! Hope you enjoy this chapter.

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Carl stopped speaking. He lifted his mug to his lips and drained it of the cold tea it contained, dropped it, ran his small, pale hands wearily through his already disordered hair.

"Well, that's it," he said, rather impatiently, when Van Helsing made no comments on his tale. "Don't just sit there like a stuffed badger – say something!"

The hunter was silent for another few moments, his face thoughtful, then he asked,

"You said you have no control over this power of yours – but you _can_ consciously, deliberately cause things to happen. The picture, the spanner...the stove and mug, for that matter..."

Carl looked somewhat surprised, and offended, at the baldness of Van Helsing's tone.

"True," the friar said coldly, "I can _instigate_ movement in objects, but I can't control them once it's started. Oh, and thank you for the sympathy, by the way."

Van Helsing winced. It hurt his heart to be so cold and callous when all he really wanted to do was embrace his friend and tell him that they would find a way to make this right, that Van Helsing would help him, that he needn't worry now the great demon hunter was here...but for Carl's own sake, he couldn't do that. Carl had lost all hope, and the only way to prevent him from falling to pieces was to lead him into solving the problem for himself – make him see that the ability Tallander had left him with really _could_ be a gift. But it would do no good to insist on this – the friar was a stubborn man, and would have to understand it for himself.

"So you do have some conscious control, which might well improve with practise," the hunter continued.

"I daresay," was Carl's dry response. "And I'm sure we could set up some kind of training ground where I can throw heavy objects at multiple-headed monsters with my mind, while making appalling quips and broodingly stealing your thunder. But my failure to control objects isn't the issue – what I'm afraid of is the _unconscious_ effects my – talent – seems to have. Like the stove and the mug; I never _intended_ to do that, it happened by itself. Or rather, in response to signals from the lower levels of my brain. There's the danger, Van Helsing, don't you see? I could have killed you, had I been angry enough – and I still might, if you keep on looking at me that way. I could bring the walls crashing down on your head."

"You're powerful enough to do that?" Van Helsing tried to suppress the natural enthusiasm of a warrior for a new and unique kind of weapon, knew it was in his voice, and hoped Carl wasn't too upset by it. It was exactly the same tone the hunter used when Carl presented him with some particularly brilliant invention. He might as well have said, "This I like!"

"I think I will be; it's continuing to grow stronger," Carl said, ignoring Van Helsing's enthusiasm if he _had_ noticed it.

"Perhaps greater control will come with it."

"Why does it matter?" the friar exploded, suddenly. "I know exactly what you're trying to do – you want to use me, don't you? You've gone through all the possibilities, all the wonderful things you could do with such a marvellous – gift. I _make_ weapons, Van Helsing but I won't _be_ one – not yours, not Jinette's, not anyone's!" Blood ran down Carl's chin as his teeth sank deeper and deeper into his lower lip, and his eyes brimmed with angry tears. "I won't use this to kill! I _will not_!" He sank back, huddling into himself. Van Helsing stared at him, shocked and stricken.

"Carl..." he reached out, gently pulled the friar's hands away from his face. "Listen to me, please. This gift you have could be used to _save_ people, not hurt them. You make weapons for me to use against those creatures which seek to hurt the innocent; how is it any different to use your new skills against them as well?"

Carl rubbed his eyes.

"Because this power is unclean, Van Helsing. Demonic. I _am_ one of those monsters you fight against..." he pulled away, withdrawing once more, the picture of absolute misery and self-hatred. Van Helsing looked on helplessly; it was like witnessing a man drowning from a cliff-top, knowing you can't make it down in time to save him but thinking that somehow, just by saying there, you can help.

He reached out and drew Carl against him. Carl, surprised out of his wretchedness by the unprecedented tenderness of the action, looked up for a moment, then shrugged and settled himself against the hunter. Van Helsing spoke, murmuring against Carl's hair like a lover,

"Carl, listen. When I was bitten by the werewolf, in Transylvania, we used my resulting gifts to destroy Dracula. The werewolf venom was monstrous, unclean, but we used it for good."

"But you were cured," mumbled Carl.

"Yes – but if I hadn't been, and I could have somehow kept control of my own mind, I would have gone on using the skills the werewolf venom gave me for the power of good. It doesn't matter where our talents come from, Carl – it's how we use them that matters."

He waited, anxious, as Carl took this in. Jinette would indeed want to use the friar's new power in the fight against evil if he could – but that was not Van Helsing's reason for trying to persuade Carl that he should use it. Van Helsing knew that employing the remarkable abilities positively was the only way Carl could come out of this alive and with his sanity intact.

He glanced down; Carl was looking at him, his face tired and thoughtful, but still without the glimmer of hopeful purpose Van Helsing had been hoping for.

"That's the problem," Carl said, quietly. "What if – what if I'm not myself? What if this thing _does_ make me like – him?" his voice trembled, and he grabbed Van Helsing's hand suddenly gripping tight enough to hurt with his surprisingly strong fingers.

"That's what you're really afraid of," the hunter said, softly. "not hurting people accidentally, but deliberately."

Carl nodded, speechless with misery and fear.

"Is there any reason to think that might happen? Have you noticed any such change in yourself?"

Slowly, Carl shook his head.

"I don't believe that could happen, Carl. Tallander had tremendous difficulty in possessing your body, even before he was damaged, nearly destroyed, by Reicher. He said himself that he couldn't possess you again, and I think that's true – and he never for a moment controlled your _mind._"

Carl sat up, beginning to look more himself. His face lost its desperate expression and took on the abstracted, absorbed expression of a scientist exploring a complicated question.

"But – what if the power itself seduces me, corrupts me?"

Van Helsing barked laughter, partly in relief at seeing Carl looking better.

"I can't imagine a more unlikely person to be corrupted by power than you, Carl! And anyway, we could all claim to be at risk of that. Myself, Jinette..."

"Yes, you're right. Cocky, but right." Carl smiled faintly, and Van Helsing allowed himself to feel encouraged. He had responded successfully to the friar's arguments, stripped away his objections and fears...

"There's still the problem of my being unable to control it, though." Carl said, glumly.

"And I still believe you can learn. I have faith in you, Carl – faith that you'll master this ability and use it for good. You have the most extraordinary mind I've ever encountered."

Carl looked up at him, and there it was: that glimmer of hope Van Helsing had been waiting for.

"You...really think so?"

"I do. And what's more, I'll stay here with you while you practice – help if I can. And when you're ready, not before, we'll return to the Vatican – together." He gazed intently into Carl's uncertain face. "Well – do we have a deal?"

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A/N Do they? Find out in the next chapter!


	6. Chapter Six

A/N Another chapter...now that my computer is repaired! It died on me a few days ago, but my boyfriend has fixed it. Thankfully didn't lose any data. Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing this story! I hope you'll continue to do so, and enjoy this chapter. There _is_ going to be a plot, by the way - I think it might become a ghost story I've had in my head for a while.

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Carl chewed thoughtfully on his lip for a long moment, while Van Helsing waited, secretly anxious. If the friar refused, it would probably mean the end of his life - for Van Helsing could not imagine the friendly, talkative man surviving a lonely, bitter exile for very long. If he agreed, the outcome might still be the same, for all Van Helsing knew - but it gave more cause for hope. Carl looked up at him, blue eyes bloodshot and weary, but with a certainty in them that hadn't been there before. He had come to a decision.

"All right," he said simply. "All right. We'll give it a fortnight. If there's no improvement in my control of these new powers, then you leave me alone and go back to the Vatican. Agreed?"

"Agreed," said Van Helsing in relief, with no intention of going anywhere, regardless of what happened.

"Fine." Carl stared blankly at the table for a moment, then sighed. "You'll need somewhere to sleep. I refuse to share this room with you - you snore."

"So do you," the hunter retorted. "What's wrong with the bedrooms, anyway?"

"Ah," Carl became even more interested in the coffee table. "Er...I was going to mention that. You see, I rather think there's something up there."

There was a bemused pause. "Come again?"

"Something. Up there."

"What? Rats? Mice? An infestation of vampire bats?"

"Very amusing. No, I was thinking of something rather less corporeal. You remember I told you about those boys who tried to burn this old place down, because of its reputation for being haunted." Carl got up and stretched himself, his spine crackling. Night was drawing on; the old mansion was darkening, and felt damp and dreary. He lit an oil lamp and a few candles, then resettled himself on the sofa with an enormous yawn.

"You don't seem very concerned about it," Van Helsing remarked.

"I've been rather preoccupied," was the dry response. "But it bothers me sufficiently to prevent me from sleeping up there. You're welcome to try."

"What exactly have you experienced?"

Carl sighed. "Van Helsing - I'm exhausted. Can this wait? I haven't been sleeping at all really, but I fancy I might have a better chance of it tonight, now there's - well, some hope."

The hunter nodded, assuming that whatever paranormal presence existed in the house - if indeed it did at all, and was not a product of Carl's frazzled imagination - was largely harmless.

"Fine. But I'd like to sleep in whichever bedroom you tried and had trouble with. We'll compare experiences tomorrow."

"You won't get a lot of sleep," Carl remarked. "But who knows, perhaps it won't bother you. There's always the chance my marvellous new abilities have rendered me especially susceptible to spirits."

Wondering exactly what kind of night he was in for, Van Helsing left Carl in the drawing room half an hour later, and mounted the stairs. He found the appropriate bedroom to be the least musty and damp of all of them, with a reasonably well-preserved bed in the middle of it and a rotting night table. He had taken a candle with him, and placed it on the table while he undressed. Carl had stripped the bed of its mouldy sheets, which lay crumpled in one corner; Van Helsing replaced them with his own bedroll.

Though better than the other upstairs rooms, the bedroom was dreary; dank, oddly airless, with a pervading smell of - something - Van Helsing could not quite identify. Rotten curtains hung across the windows, barely blocking a full moon from view. Gazing at it, the hunter shuddered, remembering what another moon like that one had meant for him not so long ago. He remembered the power, the strength, the _freedom_ the werewolf venom had brought, and how he had fought it, struggled to preserve his own mind inside the body of the monster. Carl had already faced and won a similar struggle. Van Helsing did not really fear for his friend, but an occasional doubt crept into his heart - would Carl be seduced by the power his new abilities brought him? Was he capable of using them for ill? Would he actually be able to control them? Many burdens were being placed on the friar, and on the hunter himself, who felt responsible for his friend's safety.

Now only in his underwear, Van Helsing laid his crossbow by the bed and slipped a long-bladed knife under his coat, which he was using as a pillow. Not that these weapons would make much difference against ghosts, but other fell creatures might conceivably make their undesirable presence known tonight. Feeling a sense of oppression he couldn't quite explain, and putting it down to the grimness of the room and the unceasing creaks and groans of the battered old house, he settled himself as comfortably as he could into bed, and closed his eyes.

Perhaps two hours had passed before he was awakened. Van Helsing had been sleeping lightly, half-expecting something to happen, and he was not disappointed or especially surprised when it did. The form of the awakening, however, did startle him. The crying of a child. High-pitched, anguished, but quite soft; he doubted anyone outside the room would be able to hear it. He had left the candle burning, and lifted it to look around the room; there was no sign of a child or anything else, for that matter. The sound, however, continued, sorrowful, pathetic, heartrending.

"Hello? Is anyone there?"

No answer but the wailing.

"Who are you? Show yourself to me!"

No change for a moment, and then the sobbing was replaced by sniffles and whimpers.

"How can I help you?" Van Helsing tried, knowing that this creature might be no more than a clever poltergeist or manipulative demon, but responding with instinctive pity to what seemed to be a child in distress.

There was no response; the sniffling continued, then died slowly away. Footsteps followed; it was as though someone - a small, light someone - was pacing around the bed, but Van Helsing saw no one. He lay still, waiting, but there were no more sounds, no physical sensations at all, except, as the footsteps died away, a sudden and intense coldness. He shivered and pulled the blanket around him, rubbing his hands to warm them as his entire body was pervaded by the supernatural chill.

His pocket watch informed the hunter that it was three in the morning. Only a few hours until dawn, when any manifestations might ostensibly cease. Given that the real purpose of his presence here was to help Carl, Van Helsing decided to waive sleep in favour of a little investigating by himself. He rose, slipped on his coat over his underclothes, picked up the candle, and examined the room carefully, inch by painstaking inch. He found nothing telling; no drawings on the walls or floor, no bloodstains, no items of any interest. He turned to the night-table, opened it, found nothing at all inside apart from a couple of candles, perhaps left there by Carl.

Softly, Van Helsing made his way out of the room and across the landing. He entered each and every bedroom, examining them, peering into drawers and cupboards, and was finally rewarded with an object that might have some bearing on the situation. It was a child's toy, a Diablo, lying in the bottom of a large, otherwise empty wardrobe in the smallest bedroom. He picked it up.

Footsteps.

The child was here, or perhaps some other presence; but it _felt_ like a child. No sobs this time. Turning to face the sound, Van Helsing said clearly but gently,

"Was this yours? Did it belong to you?" No answer. He held out the Diablo towards the place where the footsteps had stopped, just in front of him. After a moment, the spool was twitched out of his hands, and fell to the floor. Then footsteps again, running. Fading. Gone.

"I want to talk to you!" Van Helsing called after them, somewhat belatedly. He picked up the Diablo spool again, and put it and the accompanying sticks back into the wardrobe where he'd found them.

A search of the master bedroom, huge and once ornate, revealed other treasures. Van Helsing found a piece of red glass, the origin or purpose of which he could not imagine, except that it was pretty to look at and might have been kept by a child for that reason. Odd how the light reflecting off its angles was almost mesmeric, seemed to draw you in...with difficulty, the hunter pulled his gaze away and turned his attention to another find, a book containing writing he did not understand, but knew to be Japanese. He was unsure how he knew, but was becoming used to somehow knowing things he could not remember learning, and was more frustrated to realise he could not actually read the words than pleased at recognising the language in which they were written. Perhaps Carl would be able to translate. If not, someone at the Vatican certainly would.

Finally, with daylight beginning to filter through the house, rendering it a little more hospitable, Van Helsing returned to his room. There was no sign of any paranormal presence, and the room seemed warmer. He dressed, collected his things, and went downstairs to find Carl. The friar was awake and busy cooking breakfast on his little stove.

"You disturbed her," he said. "She'd gotten used to me."

"You hear the noises too? And how do you know it's a her?"

"You didn't actually see her, then?"

Van Helsing shook his head. "I heard a child crying, and footsteps, and a Diablo was knocked out of my hand. What did you...?"

"A Diablo?"

"I found it in the small bedroom."

"I think that was her room," Carl said, nodding. "I was too out of spirits to investigate - if you'll pardon the pun. I don't think she's dangerous, poor little thing. Did you find anything else?"

Van Helsing held out the book and the red glass. Carl took them from him - and yelped.

"What's wrong?" The hunter demanded.

"Nothing...cut myself on this thing." Carl stared with fascination at the glass, his hand bleeding all over the book. Van Helsing took a bandage and alcohol from the first aid kit in his pack, poured the latter over Carl's hand - he didn't even grunt with pain - took the glass away, and bound up the small but profusely bleeding cut. Carl's eyes followed the glass dazedly. Van Helsing shook him.

"Carl, snap out of it."

"Hmm? Oh, sorry."

"There's something odd about this," he held up the glass, avoiding looking at it. "It had the same effect on me, momentarily."

Carl nodded, himself again, and very curious. He opened the book.

"Oh, Japanese. That would make sense."

"This little girl is Japanese, then?"

"Oh, yes. Well, I assume so, she's a bit - shadowy. It's not easy to make out her features. But this book rather confirms it, doesn't it?" He turned a few pages, scanning the lines.

"Can you read it?" Van Helsing asked impatiently - then stopped abruptly as the smell of burning filled the room. "Carl, the bacon..." he began - and the stove went out. Carl didn't appear to notice.

"Well rescued," the hunter murmured, serving the bacon onto two plates and pushing one under Carl's nose.

"This is interesting," the friar remarked. "Oh, thanks for turning the stove off, I'd forgotten that."

"You turned it off," Van Helsing told him, tucking into his breakfast. Carl looked startled, then gave a watery smile.

"Useful, I suppose."

"Very. You can extinguish flames as well?"

"It appears so. But look at this," he held the book out, pointed at some words which were indecipherable to the hunter. Van Helsing shrugged impatiently.

"I can't read Japanese."

"No?" Carl seemed surprised. "All right - it seems to be written by our little friend. This passage reads,

_"Where is Mother? I am all alone here. I wish she would come back. Father says she has gone to visit Aunty in America, but I do not believe him anymore. She would have written to me. I do not like it here, and there is something wrong with Father."_

"And later,

_"I am afraid for Mother. Father has gone mad, quite mad - he is tearing up the house. Why does she not come when I call her? I am afraid she will never come again. Why is Father so angry? What have I done to make him hate me? What has Mother done?"_

"It ends there," Carl said. "Of course, there are many possibilities one might deduce from this, but I'd suggest that this poor little child's father might have murdered her."

"And maybe the mother too," Van Helsing agreed.

"How horrible," muttered Carl.

"Is there anything we can do about it?"

"I don't know - call in the spiritualists, perhaps? Have a séance? Exorcism? I somehow don't like the thought of trying to exorcise this little ghost. It might distress her."

"Then let's concentrate on you for the moment. I'll telegraph the Vatican this afternoon and inform them of our progress, as well as the - er - spirit situation." Van Helsing paused, watched Carl carefully. "Are you ready to start working on your telekinetic ability?"

The friar put down his bacon and sighed. "I suppose so. Though I must warn you..."

"You've warned me enough. I'll be fine, Carl, and so will you. How do you want to start?"

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As night began to fall, Van Helsing decided to suggest that Carl give up 'practicing' for the evening. The friar's inability to let go once he'd started working on a problem meant that he'd spent all day struggling to control the movement of candles, mugs, and various other innocuous objects, without pausing to rest or eat, and with no obvious improvement. Objects moved, but randomly, shooting into the air, flying around the room, and occasionally just shivering slightly, as though resisting Carl's attempts to control them. To add to the friar's frustration, when his empty stomach had begun rumbling a dish of bread and cheese had flown across the room to land neatly at his elbow. He had glowered at it.

"I wasn't even thinking about food!" he exclaimed, irritably.

"Obviously some part of your brain was," Van Helsing replied, shrugging. Carl sighed, ate some of the bread and cheese, and agreed to give up for the night.

"There's one more thing I want to try first, though," he said, as the lamp lit itself, much to his chagrin. He took the piece of red glass Van Helsing had discovered and placed it on the table before him.

"Now, if you're about," he said clearly, "see if you can help me with this!" he focused on the glass. It rose slowly into the air, hovered a moment, then sank back to the table.

"Was that...?"

"Exactly what I intended," Carl agreed, with an odd smile...then his face softened, and he said gently to the thin air behind Van Helsing,

"Hello, Nanashi."

Van Helsing glanced round. "Nanashi?"

"It means 'without a name'," Carl replied. "Since we don't know what she's called."

"She's here?"

"Right behind you."

Van Helsing turned, but saw nothing - except perhaps the faintest dark outline, picked out in the light of the lamp. He heard no sound, no answer from the girl Carl was seeing. The friar smiled in an encouraging, paternal way. It would be difficult, Van Helsing thought, for any child not to respond to the kindness in that smile.

"Shall we call you something nicer?" the friar suggested. "Or will you tell me your name?" No reply. "It appears death does not provide a solution to the language barrier," Carl remarked. He repeated the words in Japanese (or at least, that was what Van Helsing assumed he was saying.) There was no answer.

"Well, she smiled at me," the friar remarked. "You really can't see her?"

"No, not exactly - there's a sense that she's there which is almost perceptual, but not quite."

"Hmm. If you won't tell me your name, shall I call you Kumiko?" Van Helsing found he understood that, to his surprise. Perhaps he had learned Japanese at some point in his life, after all. He was even more surprised when a soft voice, a whisper like gently falling summer rain, more felt than heard, said,

"_Kumiko..."_

"She seems happy with that," Carl observed. "I wonder why she won't talk to us properly, or tell us who she is."

"Maybe she can't."

"Did you get a reply from the Vatican?" Carl's voice was casual, his eyes still on Kumiko, but Van Helsing recognised the tension in it.

"Jinette has agreed to the proposal - or at least, one end of it. Two weeks, and then he wants you back, regardless of what's happened."

"I'm sure he does," murmured Carl. "And our friend?"

"Is she still there?"

"Yes, just watching us. She likes the company, I think."

"Jinette said to investigate the matter if we have the opportunity, but that our priority is developing your power."

"Right...oh, she's gone!" Van Helsing turned. Indeed, the vague outline of the child had vanished, and the room seemed a little warmer. Softly, from somewhere up above his head, Van Helsing heard, "_Kumiko..._"

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Morning dawned bright and clear. Neither Van Helsing nor Carl were disturbed by Kumiko during the night, though Van Helsing did think he sensed her gazing down at him, just before he fell asleep.

When the hunter made his way downstairs, he found Carl curled up on his sofa, still asleep. He looked pale and exhausted. Van Helsing supposed the telekinesis wasn't as easy as it looked. He also noticed that the friar was holding Kumiko's piece of red glass in his hand.

Leaning over his sleeping friend, Van Helsing gently removed the glass before preparing breakfast and tea. He woke Carl with the latter, and the friar sat up, his always-untidy hair even more tousled than usual, and his eyes half welded shut with sleep.

"Mmthanks," he mumbled, taking the tea and almost dropping it. Van Helsing noticed that the mug hovered unaided in the air for an instant before Carl reclaimed it, rather than falling to the floor as it should have done. Carl did not appear to observe this.

"Sleep well?" Van Helsing wondered.

"Rather too heavily, thank you. Yourself? Any sign of our friend?"

"Nothing obvious."

Carl nodded, sipped his tea, winced as it scalded him, and put the mug down.

"What do you suppose this is?" Van Helsing waved the red glass under Carl's nose. "You were sleeping with it like a child with a doll."

"Was I?" Carl took the glass and rubbed it thoughtfully with his thumb. "Yes, there's definitely something odd about it - some force it possesses, though I don't know what. Magical, perhaps? Yes, it could be...imbued with some sort of power by a witch, or a warlock. We should be wary of it until we know its origins." He put the glass down, after tearing his eyes away from it with difficulty. It immediately floated back up to his hand again. Frowning, Carl put it back on the table firmly, then glanced down at his hand, the one previously injured by the same piece of glass.

"How is it?" Van Helsing asked casually, wandering over to the stove to check on the eggs he was boiling in a little black saucepan.

"All right, I think - I'm going to take off the bandage and give it some air." Carl unwound the dressing, and his exclamation almost made Van Helsing drop an egg.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing, it's just...well, that's a little odd."

"What is?"

Carl held out his wounded hand for Van Helsing to see. The cut had long since stopped bleeding, but a mess of dried blood covered the palm. The actual cut itself could not be seen beneath it.

"Doesn't look all that remarkable to me."

"It doesn't hurt," said Carl, quietly. "Not at all." He got up, a preoccupied expression on his face, and washed the hand carefully in a bucket of slightly stale well-water Van Helsing had brought in the previous evening. He held it up again, clean this time, and Van Helsing finally understood what had startled the friar so much: there _was_ no cut, no blood, just a small white scar where the injury had taken place.

"That's impossible," the hunter said. "Unless...was part of Tallander's gift the ability to heal rapidly?"

"One way to find out," Carl remarked, and before Van Helsing could stop him he had made a thin slash across his other palm with one of the hunter's knives.

"Carl!"

"It's a scientific experiment," the friar scolded, washing the hand carefully and bandaging it in exactly the same way as the other.

"Now what?"

"We wait and see. Meanwhile, we eat breakfast and I'll see if I can't wash up using telekinesis." He smiled faintly.

Breakfast done, Carl settled down for another day of 'practice'. Van Helsing watched as the friar set out a mug, two candles, one standing upright on a plate, and an egg.

"I'm going to try lighting the candle," Carl explained, "and moving the egg into the mug without breaking it."

"Also without shooting it at me, preferably."

"If you insist," the friar replied, with a mischievous grin. It had been too long, Van Helsing thought, since he had seen that wicked little smile.

Carl took a few moments to compose himself, gazing at the objects before him. Then, the candle flickered into life, and simultaneously, the egg slowly and deliberately rose into the air, and settled itself comfortably and neatly into the waiting mug.

Van Helsing stared. Carl stared, too, apparently equally astounded.

"I've…I've never managed that degree of control before," he gasped, spellbound. He directed his gaze to a book lying on the sofa, and made a swift, come-here gesture with his right hand. The book floated over, landed neatly on the table. Then, Carl gestured at Van Helsing's bag of weapons, and the crossbow drifted idly across the room to land in the hunter's lap.

"Well done!" Van Helsing exclaimed. Carl was smiling dazedly, disbelievingly. He made another gesture, as though pulling a trigger, and the crossbow rose abruptly into the air, loaded itself, aimed, and fired a bolt into the wall. The two men exchanged amazed looks.

"That'll work!" they said, simultaneously, then laughed together. Carl's face was a transport of excitement.

"I can do it," he breathed. "I didn't think it was possible – perhaps with months or years of practice, but like this, so soon…" his face became thoughtful. "This _isn't_ possible, is it? This power of mine couldn't suddenly come under perfect control like this. Something else is going on, something we don't understand…"

And from somewhere in the ether, a soft, childish voice whispered, "_Kumiko…"_

A/N Kumiko – 'eternal beautiful child', if the website I consulted was correct! This is a longer chapter than I expected. Please review and tell me what you think!And feel free to correct my usage of Japanese names; I'm basing it entirely on the name meanings I found online. Any ideas about where this story is going, and how Carl's new ability has developed so quickly? Who is the mysterious ghostly child?


	7. Chapter Seven

A/N Phew, okay…very long pause between the last chapter and this one. Many apologies for the long wait, and I hope you're all still with me. I'll try to update more often, especially since I now have a better idea of where this fic – and it's sequel – is going. Yes, there's going to be yet another one after this, in a rather different style. That's the plan, anyway! There's still a long way to go on this fic. Please review, and again, many apologies for the long delay, and thanks for your interest in this story!

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"Kumiko…" Carl mused, thoughtfully. He was sitting on the sofa, cradling the red glass in his hand, staring vacantly into space. "It's something to do with _this_," he brandished the glass, "which is something to do with _her_. The cut I received from the glass was probably the medium through which the change in my ability to control the telekinesis occurred. But how? And why should it? Surely Kumiko can't possibly have any connection with Tallander."

"Who knows?" Van Helsing was equally puzzled, but inclined not to look a gift horse in the mouth. "Does this mean we'll be heading back to Vatican City before the two weeks is up?"

"Certainly not!" Carl looked horrified. "We don't know if this is a fluke, how stable it is, and whether or not I can control the subconscious element – that is, prevent things from happening as well as initiate and direct them. It's the subconscious part that's the most dangerous."

The hunter nodded, detecting an undercurrent of fear in Carl's voice, knowing that the real reason the friar did not wish to return to the Vatican was his fear of the reception he might have there.

"We'll wait, then. But how can we work on the…er…subconscious thing?"

"I have no idea. It's like learning not to breath."

"But you _can_ stop yourself breathing."

"Yes. I'd die."

Van Helsing sighed. "There must be a way."

Carl thought for a while, absently turning the glass over and over. It seemed to have lost some of its odd, mesmerising effect, but he was still fascinated with it. Eventually he set it down and looked up at his friend.

"There is a way…you have to make me want things."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Well, for example, when I'm hungry, food tends to fly in my direction. We could work with that."

"Are you hungry?"

"No, not really."

"Scratch that, then. I could try making you angry again."

"It won't work if I know you're just pretending."

"I see…well, maybe we could…CARL!"

The friar leapt up, startled. "What? What?"

"Vampire!"

Carl swung around with a yell of terror – and Van Helsing's crossbow leapt across the room and into his hand. It was heavy, and the friar almost dropped it, but managed to point it shakily at the door. "Where? Where?"

"Calm down, Carl. There's no vampire."

"What? Oh…oh, I see." Sheepish, Carl put down the crossbow. "But I can't work on not doing things like this if you don't warn me that I'm supposed to be practising."

"But if I warn you, it doesn't work."

Carl sighed, sat back down. "I don't know what to suggest."

"I think we should keep trying exactly this, at intervals. It'll be a compromise – you'll be half expecting it."

The friar nodded, though he looked anxious.

"I suppose I'll just try to…well…master my emotions."

"You do that. Meanwhile there's no reason for you to stop practising the other side of the coin – controlling things deliberately. I'm going to send a telegram to Cardinal Jinette, informing him that if all goes well…"

"No!" Carl said sharply, surprising the hunter. "I'd prefer to write to him myself," the friar added, looking a little sheepish. "A letter, not just a telegram. There's an awful lot I need to explain, and…well…the cardinal may be something of a crusty old devil," he winced a little at the unfortunate choice of words, and crossed himself quickly, shooting a brief apologetic glance to the heavens, much to Van Helsing's amusement. "but he's been very good to me," Carl continued, with a small smile. "He didn't have to take me in, but he did."

Van Helsing settled himself next to the friar.

"You've never told me much about your life before the Vatican. Until recently I always assumed you grew up there."

"You assume a great deal, based on extremely suspect evidence," Carl smiled, a twinkle of mischief in his blue eyes. "Honestly, Van Helsing, do I _sound_ Italian to you?"

"Well…no. There is a little something off about your pronunciation, now I come to think of it."

Carl snorted with amusement. "I'm English, Van Helsing. I grew up in Sussex."

"Surrey?"

"Yes, it's sort of…oh, never mind. I don't suppose you've been there."

"I've been to London."

"I know, I was there. Wearing a damned uncomfortable corset, I might add," Carl ginned. "Sussex isn't very much like London – certainly not the part I grew up in, anyway. I was quite young when I was brought to Rome, but I remember Sussex quite well…in a way it will always be home to me, I think."

"I thought you grew up in an abbey."

"I did – Sussex does have abbeys, you know. It was called St. Barleigh's. I was sent there after my parents died, when I was three years old."

Sadness crept into Van Helsing's heart. Here was someone else who had lost their family. The hunter found himself wondering again, for the first time since he had met Anna, whether it was not better to remember nothing than to remember loss and pain.

"What happened to them?" he asked, softly. Carl gave him a sad smile.

"They were killed by some sort of demon. I never did find out which."

"A demon?" Surprised, Van Helsing turned in his seat to stare intently at Carl. "I didn't realise that your family had been involved in…that sort of thing."

The friar chuckled. "Didn't I tell you my granny could kill a warlock? My father was in a position similar to yours. My mother was more of a scholar – a demonologist. She did nothing in the practical side. The Order was just as fussy about letting women get involved in the dirty work back then as it is now. It still destroyed her though – that wretched creature. It broke into our house and killed them both – simply tore them apart, along with my older brother, who tried to defend my mother. I'm not sure of the exact details – and although I'm sure someone somewhere is, I didn't want to know."

Van Helsing could understand that. He felt a sharp burn of rage at the thought of the innocent child left an orphan, the brave man and woman sacrificing their lives to do God's work, the valiant youth who had died attempting to aid them.

"How did you survive?" he asked Carl, quietly.

"I wasn't there at the time. I'd been left with a nanny. My parents suspected danger, you see. They had already made arrangements for me – I was to be housed and educated at St. Barleigh until I came of age, then it was my choice whether to take orders or go out into the world. I suppose I chose a sort of halfway house in the end," he added, with a faint smile. "I never could bring myself to go all the way, as it were. I think it was partly the horror story one of the more mischievous novices told me about monks being castrated as part of their novitiate."

Van Helsing snorted, and Carl smiled, apparently pleased to have made his friend laugh despite the unhappy story he had told.

"I don't want you to feel sorry for me," the friar said, firmly. "I made my peace with all this long ago. The Abbott and the others were very good to me, taught me well, and recommended me to Cardinal Jinette when I reached a suitable age to be initiated into the Order."

"Fifteen is young," Van Helsing remarked.

"Not when the average life expectancy in the Order is about six months," Carl told him, dryly. "For the field operatives, anyway. Of course, I never wanted to be a field man." He pursed his lips and gave Van Helsing rather a perturbed look. The hunter smirked.

"I won't apologise for getting you to see something of the world, Carl."

"Hm. I didn't think you would. At any rate, it's all academic now, or rather…it isn't…" he broke off, having apparently confused himself. Van Helsing smiled.

"I think a little more practice is in order…let's see…"

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Five hours later, Carl finally announced that he'd had enough – or rather, his body rebelled against the furious determination of his brain. He had been controlling the course and speed of increasingly heavy rocks Van Helsing threw; at first, he had simply shifted their trajectory, eventually being able to reverse it and return the rock to Van Helsing at a slow enough speed for the hunter to catch it. Then, the friar had progressed to halting the rocks in mid-air, making them hover for as long as possible before 'calling' them to him; this was much harder.

What made things even more difficult was than Van Helsing, in the spirit of helping Carl to control his subconscious effect on objects, occasionally threw a rock directly _at_ the friar, whose task was the dodge it physically rather than employing telekinesis. Again and again he had failed, until finally he gave up in despair, physically unable to continue, utterly exhausted.

"This isn't working," he said wearily, dropping heavily into a sitting position on the ground. The sky was darkening, and a rumble of thunder came from the east. Evening and storm were drawing in together.

"One more try?" Van Helsing asked, glancing at the sky. "We won't get another chance today – I wouldn't like to try this inside."

Carl sighed, struggled to his feet. "All right. Once more. But it won't work. I'll just move the rock again. I simply can't stop myself if I think it's going to hit me."

Van Helsing took up a position about twelve feet away from Carl, and picked up a suitably sized rock. "Ready?"

"Yes – go ahead."

Van Helsing threw – and it worked. The rock remained on target, not moving an inch – with the less fortunate side effect that Carl, who had been truly expecting another failure and had therefore not bothered to dodge, received a glancing blow to the head. He fell over more from surprise than injury, and when Van Helsing reached his side, half anxious and half elated, the friar was laughing wildly.

"Oh, that was…I don't believe it!" he gasped, between giggles. "That was wonderful! I didn't think it would work, right up until the last second, but then there was sort of – I don't know – a sensation as though something was being _blocked_, and the rock just…kept on coming."

"And hit you in the head," Van Helsing added, smiling.

"Well yes, but never mind that. I'm all right," Carl allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. He had a small graze on the left side of his forehead, nothing more.

"It did work, didn't it? the rock didn't slow down at all? It didn't hit me very hard…"

"I didn't throw it very hard," Van Helsing explained. "Just in case."

Carl smiled, then swayed slightly. The hunter caught his arm.

"You're exhausted, and it's getting cold out here. Let's get inside and have supper." He led the friar into the house, settled him onto the sofa, and, after handing Carl a clean handkerchief to clean the cut on his head, rummaged through their supplies for food. Van Helsing had ridden to the nearest village earlier, bringing back rations. He took out sausages, bread, and cheese, and set up Carl's little stove, filling the kettle to make tea.

"Hungry?" he asked, and getting no reply, glanced over at the sofa. Carl was fast asleep, curled up on his side, his cheek resting on his hand, his face calm and peaceful. Van Helsing moved closer, crouching beside the sofa, gazing at Carl intently, remembering the last time he had watched the friar sleep and pondered the question - had he changed? The hunter sensed something different in his friend – not bad, necessarily, and certainly not evil, but – different. Perhaps it was just his imagination – it was odd to think of Carl as possessing so much raw strength, such an extraordinary weapon. That kind of power was enough to change anyone – but it was also more than enough to change someone's perception of him.

Carl still seemed to be – well, Carl. The sly humour was still there, the schoolmasterish voice still appeared when Van Helsing said something Carl considered foolish, the friar's sleeping face was still innocent, free of darkness. But it would be idiocy, Van Helsing decided, to conclude that someone could live through experiences such as Carl's and still be the same person on the other side of them. Carl _must_ have changed; how and how much were the questions Van Helsing now had to ponder. Time would tell. For everything that Carl would lose, in virtuousness, in innocence, in freedom from sin – would what he gained in power and strength and experience make up for that?

Gazing thoughtfully down at the peaceful face, Van Helsing wondered – and feared he knew the answer.


End file.
